


Because I Could Not Stop for Death

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Infant Loss, M/M, Post S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People die every second of every day. Death doesn’t call ahead and schedule a good time. “Oh, you’ve got an important lunch at noon? Sure I’ll push it back until two. See you then.” That’s not how it works. Death, for most, shows up unexpectedly. And dying? That’s the easy part. The hard part is for those left behind and picking up the pieces in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because I Could Not Stop for Death

**Author's Note:**

> The Muse came to me one day and this is the product of almost nonstop writing for two days. The editing and beta-read however, took much longer. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, torchwood221b, my Brit-picker, willietheplaidjacket, and my doc sitter, kriskenshin.
> 
> The title comes from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems.

People die every second of every day. Death doesn’t call ahead and schedule a good time. “Oh, you’ve got an important lunch at noon? Sure I’ll push it back until two. See you then.” That’s not how it works. Death, for most, shows up unexpectedly. And dying? That’s the easy part. The hard part is for those left behind and picking up the pieces in the aftermath.

******

He picks up the phone for what seems the hundredth time. Really, it shouldn’t be so difficult for someone at a funeral home to answer the phone. Yes, he knows it’s lunch time, but he just wants to get this over with. He wants to make the phone call, make the arrangements, wipe his hands of it, and be done. Then he can go somewhere that isn’t home, that doesn’t hold memories of their time together, that doesn’t still hurt, and forget. Drink or sleep. He doesn’t care which. Right now he just doesn’t want to think, doesn't want to feel, doesn't want any of it anymore. The phone continues to ring.

“Hello --”  
“Hi --”  
“You have reached Haringey Mortuary. We are sorry there is no one to assist you at this moment. If you would leave--”

He angrily presses the end button, not needing to hear the same message that every receptionist seems to record for their lunch break. He heaves a frustrated sob, wipes at his eyes, and goes on to the next number. Countless phone calls later he has finally, _finally_ taken care of everything.

******

Later that night, as he’s lying in a hotel room as far as he can get from the memories, drunker than he’s ever been, he thinks back to their life together and wonders if it ever was really enough. He laughs, half sobs interspersed with the drunk giggles. It was never going to be enough. How foolish of him to think so. Dammit, this was not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to drink himself to sleep or at least into that numbing sensation that straight alcohol will do to you and forget. Not reminisce over the mistakes.

His mobile rings once more, he’s lost count of how many times it’s rung tonight, the light of its screen illuminating the dark room. He lets it go unanswered, again. He doesn't want to share his grief with anyone. How could anyone possibly understand what he is going through? Sure other people know what it's like to lose someone, but no one knows what _his_ grief is like. It's a tight, dark ball that grows, filling up his core, not with a numbing cold, but white hot and under his skin, anger and sorrow mingling in a dangerous cocktail. It tingles all over him and he can almost feel it rushing in his blood. He was foolish to think he could escape it even for a night. The mobile goes silent and darkness finally falls once more. Good, he can't bear to see his reflection, even in the blank tv screen right now.

He tries and fails to sleep. The large bottle of scotch he had brought with him, now drained, offers no help and he didn't bring any sleep aids with him. He had assumed, mistakenly, that the alcohol would do the trick on its own. He calls down to the front desk, asking for something with a sleep aid in it. All they have is ibuprofen with diphenhydramine and he supposes it will have to do; it'll probably help with the massive hangover he'll have in the morning. He waits for the knock. When the it comes he stumbles to the door and tells them to just slide the pills under it.

"I don't think so, John," the achingly familiar baritone comes from the other side. "You're a doctor. You should know better than to mix NSAIDs, a sleep aid, and the amount of alcohol you've consumed tonight. You might not wake up in the morning if you took too much."

"Don't care. Wouldn't matter if I didn't." John slurs, barely realizing exactly what he's saying and to whom. And, if he's honest, he doesn't really care. That's a fantastic idea. Go to sleep and never wake up. It sounds marvelous. Never have to deal with this again. Never have to worry about all the pains life will bring. God that sounds perfect. No more hurt, no more disappointment, no more anything, no more being let down or letting someone else down. Just an endless sleep. That sounds ideal.

He isn't aware he's slumped down on the floor and is propped up on the door until the thud of a fist against it startles him out of his grim reverie.

"John! Don't you dare do anything stupid!" Sherlock says loudly through the door.

"Mmmm, everything I do is stupid, remember?" John mumbles through the crack in the side of the door.

He hears a relieved sigh. "Not everything, just what you're considering right now. Please John," Sherlock pleads. He never pleads John thinks, "Open the door."

"No. Too bright. Too real out there. Just leave me alone." John really doesn't want to deal with Sherlock tonight. Not his moods and deductions. He doesn't need Sherlock analyzing what’s inside his head. John hears the softer thud of a head thunking against the door and a slow sliding sound. Sherlock is sitting on the floor outside his door. The image of the long legs, dark coat, and petulant look that must be on Sherlock's face causes John an odd giggle.

"Fine." The tone in Sherlock's voice confirms John's mental image. "You're not even going to ask how I found you?

"You're Sherlock - bloody- Holmes and you fucking find everyone. Why couldn't you have not found me tonight?" John wants to go back to bed, ignore the man on the other side of the door, but he doesn't have the energy and he isn't sure his legs would hold him up anymore.

"Because you were bound to do something idiotic, like ask for a sleep aid after drinking an entire bottle of scotch."

John waves a hand in dismissal of the idea that what he'd done was idiotic. It takes him a moment to realize Sherlock can't see his hand. "Meh," he shrugs, "not idiotic. Kinda nice."

"John," Sherlock's voice is dark with warning.

"Don't 'John' me!" John snaps back. "You don't get to have a say in my suicidal ideation." John is proud of himself for remembering the term. "If I want to go, I'm going to go and you're going to let me. Just like I let you. Have you ever watched someone kill themself? Maybe I'll let you watch. Just for fun. You get off on that sort of thing." He's treading in dangerous territory, but he doesn't care.

There's a choked sob on the other side of the door. “John --” Sherlock starts before he’s interrupted by a stranger’s voice.

“Excuse me, sir, I need to deliver something to Room 157.”

There's a sharp intake of breath as Sherlock recovers enough to speak to the stranger. “You will do no such thing,” Sherlock cuts the man off.

Realizing it’s room service, John says loudly through the wood, “I’m the one paying you, ignore him and give me my damn pills. Just slide them under the door.”  
“Unless you want to be responsible to clean up the mess he might make, I suggest you turn around and walk away,” he hears Sherlock snarl.

“Is there something I should make management aware of?” the younger voice asks.

“Nothing at the moment,” Sherlock says and John can practically hear him waving his arms in dismissal.

"Good night sirs," the young man says before walking away.

“Now I won’t get any sleep tonight,” John mumbles sadly.

“You’ll get plenty if you just let me in,” Sherlock pleads.

He's pleading again. Why is he pleading, John wonders. John knows there's nothing Sherlock wouldn't do for him. So why can't he just leave him alone tonight?

"Why won't you just leave me alone tonight?" John echoes his thoughts.

There's a silence on the other side of the door. John almost thinks that Sherlock might have left. It's possible the alcohol is still taking its time affecting him and he wouldn't have heard the man get up to leave.

"Sherlock?" he asks again.

"Because this is my fault and you shouldn't have to suffer alone," comes the quiet reply.

John sits there more than a bit stunned. He tries for angry but finds he's too exhausted to fan the embers that flared at the comment. His head hits the door with its own thud and he sighs.

"And how, pray tell, is any of this your fault?" he asks. He knows it's the expected question.

"I thought you'd be angrier at that."

"I tried. Too tired. I'll be angry tomorrow since apparently I'm going to have to have one."

"And hopefully another one after that and so on and so forth."

"Now you're just not making any sense." John's brow furrows in confusion.

"I intend to see you get many more tomorrows is all," Sherlock replies.

"Well aren't you the good Samaritan," John scoffs.

"Not really, no. Dammit, John, don't make me sit out here all night. This is uncomfortable."

"Why is this all your fault? You didn’t marry her. You didn’t lie to her to save your best friend. You didn’t watch over the pregnancy closely and still miss the warning signs. You aren’t the doctor. I should have seen. I should have known. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, not yours. In one instant I lost both the mother of my child and my daughter.” His sentences start coming out in sobs towards the end.

“John, you really need to let me in first. I could get a keycard, but I’d rather I was let in with your consent." There's a long pause followed by, "Please.”

John sighs and wipes a hand over his face, ridding himself of the tears he’s shed. It’s not like Sherlock won’t know, but he prefers to have some measure of dignity. “Fine.” He reaches up and pulls the door handle allowing it to open a fraction enough for his slender friend to squeeze in. Sherlock looks down at him, no trace of pity shown on his face in the sliver of light let in through the door, just understanding.

“Come on, stand up,” Sherlock offers him his hand.

John shakes his head. “Can’t walk, legs too wobbly.”

“Try,” Sherlock’s hand is still extended. John reaches for it and is yanked to his feet far too quickly for his stomach to allow. Thankfully the bathroom is mere steps away and he manages to make it, retching into the toilet. So much for dignity. There’s a quiet click as the hallway door is shut and locked. He feels a cool, damp cloth on the back of his neck, and fingers soothing, running through his hair.

“You should have known better than to pull me up like that,” he pants between heaves. Sherlock says nothing, just rewets and squeezes out the flannel before placing it on the back of John’s neck again.

"And you needed to get some of that out of your system. You've had far too much tonight." Sherlock's voice is oddly quiet and more soothing than scolding. Trust Sherlock to be able to berate and be comforting at the same time. John isn’t sure if Sherlock means the alcohol or mental self-flagellation, but quite possibly both. He takes the flannel off the back of his neck and wipes his mouth as Sherlock stands and John hears him removes his coat, hanging it in the closet next to the door. John walks wobbly to the bed and slowly sits down. He turns, propping his back against the headboard.

"Do you mind if I turn on the lamp?" Sherlock asks.

"No. I mean yes, I mind. Like I said, too bright."

There's a sinking sensation on the bed next to him and suddenly Sherlock is shoulder to shoulder with John. It'd be odd if this wasn't something they hadn't done countless times in the past, before Sherlock jumped. Sitting in bed in a hotel room, Sherlock lost in thought or rambling on about the case. John reading or offering some small bit of conversation. They haven't sat like this since he came back though and a small part of John's brain realizes how much he's missed this. They sit quietly together in the dark for what seems like forever but is probably no more than a quarter of an hour. When Sherlock speaks it's low and quiet, but John still startles at the sound.

"I could be selfish and say it's my fault because I went away. Because I jumped and didn't give you the chance to go with me. Because I left you, because I hurt you. That if I hadn't done those things, that you would have never fallen for her. That you would never have fallen into her trap. But in reality, she was going to come for you no matter what. It was laid out on the thumb drive, you saw that.” Sherlock pauses, inhales shakily, then continues. “No, it's my fault because when I did come back, when I did see you again, saw how hurt you were, what sort of pain you'd been in because of me and how she had helped you, I let go what I deduced when I first saw her. She was a liar. I knew that from the first day. But everyone lies. So I let it go. She was clever, she reached out to me instead of pushing me away like so many had before. And instead of going deeper, finding out what kind of liar she was, I dropped it. I can't help but wonder sometimes what would have happened if I had pushed ahead and found out more about the person she really was, would you have listened? Or would that have driven an even larger wedge between us? At least you forgave me. That's all I wanted at the time." Sherlock stops then, waits for John’s reaction.

John's brain is too far gone in the alcohol to really comprehend all of it. "You mean to say, that if you'd told me that Mary was a liar I would never have married her and that's why all this is your fault? Sherlock, that's ridiculous." John shakes his head slowly, trying to wrap his mind around all of it. He feels Sherlock shrug next to him.

"That's part of it. Really, by that point you probably would have married her anyways just to prove a point. You're a very stubborn man, John Watson." John can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice.

"Yeah, well you're one to talk, and you're probably right." John nudges Sherlock in the shoulder and wobbles back upright.

"There's something else you should know, John. Something that if I had delved further in the beginning or at least let myself learn more about her, I could have saved you all of this heartache and trouble." There's a hitch in Sherlock's voice as if he is delivering John's own death knell. John almost wants to tell him not to finish the thought. That he can't deal with any more bad news tonight, he's reached his limit. But there's a part of him that needs to know. He can’t speak, his throat is too tight, dreading what’s coming. He nods his go ahead, knowing Sherlock can feel the motion.

"John, the baby...she wasn't biologically your child."

At those words, John's world shatters. He feels it break into tiny, crystalline shards. He had thought this morning, mistakenly, that his world had broken so much that it was impossible to break even more, but he had been oh so wrong. He doesn't bother to question Sherlock on the how or why. He knows Sherlock wouldn't lie to him about this. His vision goes white in the darkness of the hotel room and his brain supplies the images he had hoped to forget. He remembers Mary falling face first down from the uppermost step, sliding and unconscious. He'd immediately called 999 before doing his best to help her, but the way her neck was angled told him it was probably already too late. He had done his best to keep air and blood moving without causing more damage, but when the EMT's arrived it was too late for her. They rushed her to the hospital in hopes of saving the baby, but the way Mary had fallen had caused too much trauma to the baby and she, too, was lost to John. It might have sounded callous to most ears, but the loss of the baby had been the worst of it. In reality, he had taken Mary back for the sake of their unborn child and he cared about Mary in the sense that she was the mother of his child, nothing more at that point after all she'd done. But his baby girl, that had been who he was really mourning tonight.

He’s never bothered to question the paternity of the baby. He’d just assumed at how ‘dedicated’ Mary had been to keeping him, that the baby couldn’t be anyone else’s. He feels like he’s lost his little girl twice in one day. He was right in his thoughts earlier. No one can know what his grief feels like. And Sherlock understands him well enough to know all of this.

He comes back to the present to find himself sobbing into Sherlock's shirt, tears having soaked the fabric. Sherlock's arms are around him, holding and comforting him. There's a rush of air in his hair, as Sherlock murmurs softly words that John can't make out. John’s body shakes and he isn’t sure if it’s just from crying. It’s only by a stroke of luck that he figures out what’s coming and makes it to the bathroom in time to empty the rest of his stomach. A fresh flannel is rinsed and comes to rest on the back of his neck. He can feel Sherlock standing behind him, a solid presence in a world that no longer seems real. John rocks back until his back is supported by those long legs. He removes the flannel and asks, “Water?”

Without moving his legs, Sherlock reaches over, manages to find the cup by feel next to the sink, fills it with water, and finds John’s outstretched hand. Silently, John thanks that the bathroom is so tiny that Sherlock can manage it all. Right now, he can barely move and the only thing that is keeping him from falling over is Sherlock’s silent support at his back. Numb is the only word for what he feels right now. John slowly sips his water until he’s drained the cup and asks for another.

Sherlock waits until he’s done before speaking, “You shouldn’t spend the whole night in here. Your shoulder might be worse than your hangover in the morning.”

John nods as he speaks, his voice raspy, “Help me up at least. Slowly this time.”

Sherlock’s arms loop under John’s and around his shoulders as he gently helps John to stand. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“This is a bit of role reversal, usually it’s the other way around.” John points out as Sherlock takes his hand and leads him back to the bed.

“I fully expect you to take up your role as caregiver again when you haven’t had your life snatched out from under you. For now, just let me do this for you.” Sherlock’s voice is soft in the darkness.

“Yeah, okay.” John can’t help but murmur as he reaches the edge of the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

Suddenly, there are long fingers at the hem of his shirt, causing John to start. “Arms up. I doubt you’re coordinated enough to undress without falling over." Sherlock's words drift around him like a safety net.

John obeys, unthinking. It’s good to not have to think. His shirt is pulled gently over his head and Sherlock steps away to place it somewhere in the room. The air is cool, causing him to shiver slightly. He waits for Sherlock to return, too tired and dazed to try and remove the rest of his clothes. There is a warmth in front of him as Sherlock returns and John sways into him.

“See?” There’s a hint of a smile in Sherlock’s voice as he steadies John upright before starting to remove the rest of John’s clothes. Sherlock’s fingers are at his belt, unfastening it and his jeans, sliding them down to the floor and over his already bare feet, leaving to place them with John’s shirt and the warmth is gone again. He realizes he feels even more unsteady without Sherlock near him. John stands there in his soft undershirt and boxers waiting for Sherlock to come back. There’s a sound of a rustling of fabric and a brush of the sheets against the back of John’s legs, then Sherlock’s hand is on his shoulder guiding him into the bed. John sighs as the sheet and comforter are pulled up. Sherlock steps away and there’s a surge of panic as John realizes he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Not in the dark, not with his thoughts. He’s terrified of what will haunt him when he sleeps. His voice cracks in a plea, “Sherlock! Please don’t leave me.” He realizes it’s the opposite of what he wanted earlier, but he doesn’t care. He just wants Sherlock nearby.

“I wouldn’t think of being anywhere else, John.” Sherlock’s voice is tender. “I’ll be in the chair if you need me and right here when you wake up.” John can hear him shuffling in the darkness, towards the aforementioned chair. But Sherlock is still too far away for what John needs right now. He doesn’t just need him in the room he needs --

“Here, Sherlock, not there. Please,” John’s voice cracks again and he’s is sure that he wouldn’t have the bollocks to ask this if it weren’t for the alcohol, “I need you here, with me. I can’t -- I can’t -- be alone right now. I need you here. Not there. The bed's too big. I -- I just need you. Here. You gave me the news, now please -- just give me this.”

The shuffling footsteps stop. “You’re grieving, John,” Sherlock’s voice is shakey. “You don’t need me in your bed.”

“Which is why I promise not to take advantage of you. Please Sherlock, I don’t want to cry alone.” John can’t believe those words came out of his mouth, but apparently they worked, because he hears Sherlock slowly shedding his clothes, feels the sheet lifts up, and then Sherlock’s long frame is next to his.

John has been a back sleeper all his life, his lovers usually with their heads on his chest, his arm cradling them, but tonight he finds himself completely opposite. He curls towards Sherlock seeking the warmth he feels radiating from him. Sherlock stiffens at first, when John's wet cheek finds a pillow on his bare chest, strangely at odds from his comforting earlier. John distantly thinks it must be because of the lack of clothes, but he honestly couldn't care less right now. Sherlock's arm slips out from under John, and it wraps tenderly around John's shoulders, his fingers tracing soothing, slow strokes in the soft fabric of John's shirt. John cries himself to sleep, the sound of Sherlock’s heart and gentle touches helping to comfort him. As he drifts into the darkness he hears Sherlock softly murmur, “I will always be here for you, my dear John.”

******

He sleeps and dreams of ocean mists, thudding waves, and gentle winds. There's nothing that disturbs him. There is a calm and peace to be found in dreaming. It's been so long since he's had a night that there wasn't something that disturbed him in sleep or he just didn't dream, that he has forgotten this was possible. He sighs and shuffles a bit in his sleep, there's a gentle squeeze, pulling him closer. He huffs a bit and nuzzles the warmth he finds under his cheek, then lets sleep pull him back deeper into his dreams. A part of him recognizes Sherlock was right about the sleep he'd get by letting him in.

When he does finally wake, he finds himself still cocooned in Sherlock's arms. It's almost as if they didn't shift throughout the night. His head hurts and his heart still aches with the pain of it all, but it's not anything close to the raw wound it felt like the previous night and day. Sherlock is breathing deeply, the slow rise and fall of his chest offering a small comfort. John thinks that now that he is sober, he should pull away from this embrace, give himself the illusion that he only sought comfort from Sherlock because he was drunk. That it shouldn't feel this right to lie here in his best friend's arms the day after he lost the mother of his child. But he can't bring himself to move.

"Don't." Sherlock's voice is sleep-rough.

"Don't what?" John's own voice is still raspy.

"Don't think. You've got hours and days ahead to think. Just don't right now."

"That's rich coming from you," John almost smiles, "I was actually thinking about not moving from this spot."

"Oh." Sherlock's voice is quiet, "Well you may continue then."

Sherlock's fingers slide up and down John's back in slow gentle patterns and John thinks. He thinks back to all the times he wished for this very thing to happen. In his thoughts it was always something else that brought them together, something more intense, more dashing, less traumatic. He'd given up on those dreams when Sherlock had "died" and regretted never having it. He'd even brushed it aside countless times after Sherlock came back because he had Mary. Then she had turned out to be who she was and he was too angry and too conflicted after everything. And there had been so much everything, especially during the months after she had shot Sherlock, when she and John had basically had no contact while Sherlock had been healing. John had wanted so badly to reach out and be there more for Sherlock, but it was almost as if Sherlock had put up his own wall, keeping John's best interests at heart it seemed. John hadn't wanted to take Mary back but Sherlock had insisted and so John lied to her and he took her back. John thinks back to the previous night's revelations and he could see how Sherlock blamed himself for John's pain. But John can't bring himself to put any of it on Sherlock. Mary had brought his mere tolerance of her on herself, she was the one who had led him on about the baby being his, but she also hadn't been aware of the high blood pressure that caused her to black out, fall, and kill both her and the baby. John wanted so badly to place blame on someone but even in the end he couldn't solely place blame on her for that. She was responsible for a good bit of this mess, but not that. And he refuses to put any of the blame on Sherlock. John had made his own choices, he could have said no, he could have looked deeper, but he hadn't let himself. He's been willingly blind to Sherlock's feelings, since Sherlock himself didn't want to admit them or ask John about his own. After last night, John is fairly sure that's not an issue anymore, even if they most likely won't talk about it.

"You're thinking," Sherlock's voice intrudes into John's thoughts, his fingers stilling on John's back.

"Yeah, still not moving though," John says. Sherlock's fingers resume their slow wandering.

"I am sorry for your loss, John."

"I know."

"What will you do now? About --" Sherlock cuts himself off.

It doesn't matter, John knows what he means. He's quiet as he thinks, letting the tears fall again. He's allowed this grief and the comfort he finds in Sherlock's arms. He almost dares anyone to take either from him.

After a few minutes he answers. "I still want to have their funeral. She may not have been biologically my child, but she was still mine. And Mary's. I did love her once." He feels Sherlock nod above his head.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less from you, but that's not what I meant." Sherlock inhales shakily, John's head jerks a bit on his chest. "What will you do now, after this?" In the dim light seeping through the curtains, John sees Sherlock's free hand make a sweeping motion up and down their bodies. "I understand, I think, that you needed this last night. But don't feel obligated to continue. I don't expect anything from you." Sherlock's voice is steady, but John can both feel and hear Sherlock's heart racing with his head where it is. He reaches up, plucking Sherlock's hand from the air and brings it back down to Sherlock's chest, where he holds it in his own.

"I'm not obligated, Sherlock. This is not the way nor should it have been the time for us to be here. But we are. And it's fine, it's all fine." There's a distant memory, an echo from his past and John remembers saying those words to Sherlock the first night they met. Apparently, so does Sherlock as his body relaxes and there's a small chuckle that rumbles through his chest. "I need to clean out the maisonette at some point, but I'd like to come back to Baker Street in the meantime, and," John very tentatively kisses the fingers he's holding in his hand, "I'd like to see where this goes, without me being a grieving, suicide-contemplating, drunk. Thanks for that by the way."

Sherlock's arm had tightened around him at that statement. He pauses a moment before he says, "As I said, I intend to see you get many more tomorrows." There's a light press of lips on his head and John smiles a bit at the sentiment. Apparently, it's not a defect after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know what I want to happen to the baby and Mary in the show, but nothing so harsh as what I've written. This sort of just happened. Please don't yell at me for what drove the Muse.


End file.
